


merde

by curiositykilled



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, Body Image, F/M, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gen, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Keith and Shiro are Adoptive Siblings, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Other, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Indulgent, Some Plot, Veteran Shiro, after 13 years of ballet author still can't spell french, alternate universe - the orange was never elected
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:40:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9602102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: merde/merd/exclamationa French word for "shit." Also synonymous in the ballet world for "good luck" before a performance.





	1. November 2020

**Author's Note:**

> If you follow me on tumblr, you're probably sick of hearing about this. If you don't, well here [ I am ](http://www.curiosity-killed.tumblr.com).
> 
> Anyway, this AU is 99% based off my own experiences as a ballerina at a """pre-professional""" academy. It will be self-indulgent, a little ridiculous, and mostly fluffy. I think. Also there'll be 1(+) illustration with each chapter for now, which is why updates may be a little slow. 
> 
> I'll probably include a glossary at the very end once I've finished, but for now, any French terms will be explained in the notes.

          “Give me your leg. Mhm. And now - yes, relax that hip.”

          Pidge stifles a yawn as she ducks down to grab her water bottle. Allura will be working with Lance for another minute or so, and she’s not going to waste the reprieve. Beside her, Keith has his elbows hooked back on the barre and is watching with interest. Privately, Pidge thinks it’s less for whatever advice Allura might offer and more for Lance.

          “Point your foot. We’re not in modern right now.”

          “If only,” Hunk mumbles on Pidge’s other side.

          She snorts and glances over in agreement. Allura’s always been strict, but this close to Nutcracker, she’s relentless. Sweat has soaked through Pidge’s green leotard like Rorschach blots, and she grimaces at the feel of dried sweat on her forehead. Allura, of course, looks as if she stepped out of ABT’s Instagram: white hair coiled neatly on the back of her head, purple earrings glittering, and black tank impeccable. It’s unfair.

          “At least it’s not pointe,” Pidge offers, mostly for herself.

          Hunk’s nose scrunches up in a grimace. He and Matt have both offered improvements to Pidge’s pointe shoes in an attempt to limit her black toenails. So far, they’ve all been thwarted by either her mom or Allura. 

          “There you go. Now, arm?” Allura prompts.

          Lance obligingly lifts his arm into high fifth, chin lifted and gaze high above Pidge’s head. He’s still in his cross country uniform, royal blue spandex dark with sweat and legs splattered with dried mud. With his lime green socks and foot up to his ear, he looks more than a little ridiculous.

          There’s a quiet noise at the door, and Pidge turns. She freezes.

          “Shiro!”

          Keith is a black-and-white blur to the door, moving before any of the others can think. He crashes into Shiro’s chest, arms wrapping around him like a vice. Even from this distance, the pressure looks painful. Shiro only smiles and returns the hug, though. His arms are covered by his jacket sleeves, and black gloves hide his hands. There’s a new scar across his face, thick and jagged.  _ Guess he won’t be the poster boy anymore, _ Pidge thinks blankly. 

          “Holy shit,” Lance whispers.

          He’s still holding position, but his head’s twisted towards the brothers in the doorway, mouth gaping in shock. Allura is stock still beside him, face expressionless.

          After a long moment, Shiro unfolds from his half of the embrace, and Keith releases him. He doesn’t turn around right away, instead rubs at his eye and sniffs once first. Once he straightens up, Shiro shifts his gaze to glance over the rest of the class. The top grade at their studio, there’s only the five of them and Allura. His gaze stops with her, and Pidge glances over to check that Hunk is seeing exactly what she is. His fond expression says as much.

          “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Shiro apologizes. He rubs just below his right elbow, as if it hurts. “I just...”

          He trails off, but that seems to be enough to stir Allura into motion.

          “You still have that stupid haircut,” she says.

          Regret flashes across her face as soon as the words leave her mouth, and Lance snickers. He’s finally put his leg down, thank god. Pidge’s hip was starting to ache in sympathy.

          Shiro grins, broad and bright. If Pidge were given to poetry over circuitry, she’d say it’s like a sunrise. Instead, it reminds her of the moment she figures out a calculus problem, the bright-gold epiphany that bursts deep within her chest.

          “Can’t lose my aesthetic,” Shiro replies.

          Pidge groans. Allura is oblivious, eyes only for Shiro. Even Keith seems to have lost a little bit of his joy in exchange for familiar exasperation. He glances from Shiro to Allura and back, as if to ask ‘ _ seriously?’ _ Pidge can’t blame him. 

          Allura shakes her head, a grin sneaking onto her lips.

          “You’re not interrupting anything,” she says. “You’re welcome to join us, actually. We’re just on adagio.”

          “It’s been a while,” Shiro hedges.

          Allura waves his excuse away.

          “Then it’s time you get back in,” she says.

          “Are they even trying to be subtle?” Lance grumbles, having slid into Keith’s previous spot.

          “Do you remember when we were in middle school?” Pidge asks. “This is only the beginning.”

          Hunk sighs, a small smile curving his lips.

          “It’s so sweet,” he says.

          Shiro’s shrugging out of his jacket and setting it on the white bench by the door. Underneath, he’s wearing a Nike long-sleeve and soccer pants Pidge thinks she remembers from when he was in high school. For a moment, it’s almost as if they’ve traveled six years back in time, back when she was just starting to wobble along en pointe. Then, he removes his gloves. 

          There’s a canon of surprise around the studio, and Keith’s shoulders stiffen as he bristles defensively. Shiro seems to ignore it, tugging off his sneakers and finding a spot along the wall barre in his socks. The grey prosthetic clicks quietly when it hits the metal. 

          “Alright, do you remember the combination?” Allura asks.

          She’s stepped into the middle of the studio, hands clasped prayer-like at her chest. Lance scrambles back to his spot, just in front of Shiro, and Keith hurries back to his. In moments, they’re recomposed into the not-quite-ideal image of a ballet class. Allura hits the music.

          Class goes quickly after that, barre sliding into center without any more hiccups. When she can, Pidge sneaks peeks at Shiro in the mirrors or out of the corner of her eyes. He doesn’t dance quite like he used to - his legs are a little lower, arms a little tighter - but there’s still that natural athleticism they’ve all envied since they were old enough to recognize it.

          Allura is a little more subdued, calling out corrections but not making them stop halfway through and begin the combination again. When they get to petit allegro, Pidge steps up to Shiro’s right side. Keith is on the other side, likely hoping Shiro’s kept his musicality. Shiro glances over at her and smiles.

          “Going to show me how it’s done?” he asks.

          Pidge grins, all teeth.

          “Try and keep up,” she replies.

          Halfway through, they’re both fighting back laughter while Keith grins. The combination wasn’t necessarily meant to travel, but Shiro and Pidge push each other back and forth across the marley like magnets turned towards each other. 

          “Cheater,” Pidge pants once they’ve finished. “You did volé.”

          “I think I’d land on my face if I didn’t,” Shiro laughs.

          “You both suck,” Keith gripes. 

          Shiro reaches out his right hand to ruffle Keith’s shaggy hair.

          “And you still rush,” he replies.

          Keith bats his hand away, but there’s no venom in the openly affectionate look he sends Shiro. Allura’s yelling at Lance again, and he flings himself into the final assemblé with blatant desperation. He’s gleaming with sweat, chest heaving, and Pidge feels a pinch of pity; as much as they all know that their teachers’ criticism is a good thing, it still sucks to receive it.

          Beside her, Shiro frowns thoughtfully.

          “He's improved a lot,” he remarks. “Is he the Nutcracker again?

          “Cavalier,” Keith replies.

          Pidge only just catches the surprise-blank expression that flits over Shiro’s face.

          “Cavalier? With Allura?” he asks.

          “No, with me,” Pidge replies, bent over to stretch her calf. “We don't have principals this year.”

          Shiro’s eyebrows lift, but he still rests his hand on her shoulder.

          “Well, congratulations,” he says.

          Pidge shrugs. They all know that the casting change is less because of the students’ wealth of skill and more the studio’s lack of resources. Anyway, she liked Dewdrop. Sugar was more technical, lacking the motion of Dew.

          Lance turns away from Allura and trudges to the side of the room. Hunk reaches over to squeeze his shoulder, but all Lance manages is a weak smile.

          Allura only marks out grande allegro with her words and hands rather than showing it, and Pidge can't help wondering if her hip’s bothering her again. Allura admitted, once, that sometimes the cold will do it, but Pidge wouldn't be surprised if it's from overuse, too. Despite her admonitions to students, Allura has never been the best at resting.

          When they're finally done, it's a close call whether Pidge would rather get dressed to go home or just lay down on the marley and wait for Matt to come get her.

          “I can't feel my knees,” Hunk mumbles.

          “At least you didn't have to hold developpe for five minutes straight,” Lance rejoins.

          “Come on you guys, it wasn't that bad,” Shiro says.

          He's leaning over the bench to tie his sneakers, and as Pidge watches, he fumbles the laces with his prosthetic and starts again.

          “You only did half of it!” Keith complains.

          “But I haven't taken class in three years,” Shiro reminds him.

          Lance makes a peculiar face at that, some chimera of disgust, envy, and awe. He's already zipped up his cross country sweats again and crams his feet into his shoes without tying them.

          “Lance, may I speak with you?”

          His shoulders visibly slump, and his laces tap along the floor as he trudges across the studio to Allura. Allura speaks quietly, but it’s a small studio, and the rest of them can hear all of what she says.

          “Lance, you know I’m only hard on you because you have so much potential, don’t you?” Allura asks.

          Lance makes a noncommittal noise, expression carefully blank and hands loose at his sides.

          “You’ve improved so much this semester,” Allura continues. “I’m so proud of you. But I know you can get better, too. Okay?”

          Lance sniffs and nods, not quite meeting Allura’s eyes. She squeezes his arm.

          “I’m really proud of you,” she repeats.

          “Thanks,” he says, a little wet.

          Pidge looks away, back to the t-shirt that’s become entangled with her sweatshirt. Beside her, Shiro’s gotten both his shoes on and has his coat draped over his arm as he leans forward slightly on the bench. Keith’s on his back, knee pulled to his chest in an IT band stretch. 

          Lance drops down beside him abruptly, landing with a thud. Keith glances over, looking over Lance’s face a moment before speaking.

          “You okay?” Keith asks.

          “Me? Always,” Lance scoffs.

          Without Allura in front of him, he’s transformed back into his usual gregarious self. Keith scowls, whether because of the lie or the dismissal, Pidge can’t say.

          “Whatever,” he grumbles, rolling up to his feet.

          He grabs his duffel by the strap and pauses to shoot Shiro a meaningful look.

          “I’m going to change,” he says. “I’ll meet you at the front door.”

          “Okay,”  Shiro says blithely.

          Lance follows Keith out the door with an absentminded wave. Without them, the studio is abruptly quiet. Pidge pulls on her sweatshirt as Shiro rises and walks across the studio to Allura. His steps are quiet, just the soft squeak of rubber soles against the marley.

          She watches them surreptitiously as she pulls on the rest of her clothes. They talk with an intimate hush, like their words are too weighty to carry across the studio. There's a tightness to both their postures, but it loosens as they speak.

          Her phone buzzes, no doubt Matt telling her he's arrived. She slips out quietly, leaving them still talking behind her.


	2. January 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: assumption of major character death (Shiro); body image issues (Allura)

          The news comes on a Tuesday. They’ve just finished frappés, and Allura’s kneeling to work with Pidge. Coran pokes his head into the studio and waits till Allura is done to speak.

          “Your mom’s here to pick you up, Number Five,” Coran announces.

          Allura frowns and glances up at Pidge. From her spot kneeling on the floor, she can see Pidge’s focused expression turn to one of confusion.

          “We still have forty-five minutes left,” she protests.

          “It seems important,” Coran says with a shrug.

          “Go on, Pidge,” Allura says. “I’ll see you Thursday. Good work today.”

          She still feels awkward around them, like she’s not quite sure how to behave. It’s been five years since she was a student alongside them and so much has changed. While they’ve blossomed into a set of powerful, graceful dancers, she’s floundered and failed. She left with such high hopes, such ambitions, and now she’s back to ground zero with a busted hip and broken dreams. She’s not sure how to interact with her own replacements.

          Pidge bends to pick up her water bottle and warm-ups, still frowning, and walks across the studio to grab her bag. She ducks out the door with a backhanded wave to the rest of the class. Allura catches Coran’s eye, but he just shrugs before closing the door behind him. Allura turns back to the class.

          “Alright,” she says. “Other side.”

          She uses the barre to pull herself to her feet and her hip twinges painfully. She bites down against it, careful to keep her expression neutral. She’s not ready to be decrepit, not yet. She’s not ready to be old.

          The rest of class passes quickly, more subdued than the beginning. She has no doubt that the whispers the students exchange in between combinations have to do with Pidge’s departure, but she doesn’t call them out. Shay has a persistent, worried frown throughout center, and when class is over, she hesitates by the door.

          “Do you need something?” Allura asks.

          She’s not sure if her voice comes out too sharply or if she just startles the girl, but Shay twitches in surprise and shakes her head.

          “N-no,” she says. “Thank you, Miss Allura.”

          She curtsies quickly even though she already did when they finished reverence. Allura dips her head back, and Shay slips out. The studio’s quiet in the students’ absence. She picks her way across the floor to scoop her sweater off the bench at the front of the room. She pauses, still leaning over.

          The studio’s empty. Outside of it, Coran is likely the only one left in the building. Her hip hasn’t been hurting her - not much, anyway.

          Slowly, as if her body is acting without her control, her other hand finds the end of her sweater and she takes a few steps back to center. She doesn’t look in the mirror. She starts at the beginning, slowly. A prance on the right, scooping the sweater up from the ground like a flower wreath. A tondu to the front, trace a half circle on the floor, and the pace picks up.

          She doesn’t remember the music, but her body remembers the steps, remembers how it feels to flow from a gentle curve of her back to quick pique turns with her arms aloft. The sweater is less of a flower hoop and more a ribbon, but her arms know how to stay firm and solid in a goblet shape. Her yoga pants work just as well as a skirt. A rose is a rose no matter the name, and a ballerina is a ballerina no matter the clothes. She can feel the motion sweeping through her, the sense-memory of stagelights and a shadowed crowd, the exhilaration of a demanding solo, the joy in the movement.

          She swoops the sweater around to lay over her shoulders and tilts her head just-so as she starts the jeté-brisé section. She makes it two steps in. Her leg buckles, she hits the ground hard. Biting her lip, she swallows down a gasp of pain and forces herself to exhale, a shaky release. Tears burn in her eyes, but she blinks them back.

          “Goddammit,” she hisses, wet.

          She wipes brusquely under her eyes and then presses the heel of her hand into her forehead, between her eyebrows. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she has to lose everything she loves. It’s not fair that she’s twenty-three and can’t dance because of a bum hip and a bad break. It’s not.

          “Allura? Allura, are you alright?”

          She forces a shaky smile as Coran hurries across the floor. Shame follows the anger-despair-frustration that came first. It’s embarrassing. She knows she shouldn’t try to dance, certainly shouldn’t try any jumps, just yet. She’s only been out of a cast for a couple weeks. Pushing now is only apt to cause further damage.

          “I’m fine, Coran,” she lies.

          “You need to rest,” Coran says as he helps her up. “You have to let yourself heal.”

          She scoffs quietly and bites the inside of her lip. She knows he’s right. It doesn’t make it easier.

          “You sound like Shiro,” she says.

          It hurts to put weight on her leg, but she’s got practice with hiding a limp. Coran probably knows, she can admit, but he allows her this little sliver of pride.

          “Takashi is hardly the worst person to be compared to,” Coran replies.

          She smiles and shakes her head. Coran and Shiro have a funny relationship, one she’s never understood. She doesn’t know if it’s because they’re both men or because she’s too close to both of them to look at them from anyone’s eyes but her own. She sits down on the front bench to put on her sweater and change shoes.

          “Speaking of whom, have you heard from our star pilot recently?” he asks.

          “Not for a couple weeks,” Allura says. Her voice is muffled by her sweater, and she tugs it over her head impatiently. “He said he and the Holts were going out on a mission. They’re probably off radar.”

          Coran nods with a thoughtful expression.

          “It is funny how they all managed to wind up together,” he remarks. “Military life can be hard. It’s good they have one another.”

          “Yeah,” Allura agrees with a small. “Well, I should get headed home.”

          She has a date tonight, and even if she’s not really looking forward to it, she should probably wear something other than three-day-old dance gear. If nothing else, she refuses to give Lotor anything to hold over her. She only agreed to the date because it’s been so long since they last saw each other and because, if nothing else, he’s still connected to the professional world.

          “Be careful driving!” Coran calls after her. “And ice that hip!”

          She waves over her shoulder at him and limps the rest of the way to the parking lot. Inside her Camry, she hunches over in her seat and waits for the heat to kick on. Heated seats really should be installed in all cars, she thinks. It’s common courtesy. She clicks her seatbelt in and backs out of the parking lot.

          At a red light, she runs her fingers backwards through the crown of her hair to break up the hairspray stuck there, but she waits till she’s home to start pulling out bobby pins. The cats greet her as soon as she’s opened the door, and she bends over to rub each of their heads before heading to the bathroom.

          With the last bobby pin, her hair tumbles down in a long coil. It’s past her hips now, heavy and thick. When they were young, Shiro would braid it for her and she’d do his eyeliner. They’d grown out of the need for that help, but the habit persisted on Saturday mornings and days when they got to the theatre an hour before everyone else. Now, she combs her fingers down through it and shakes slightly to loosen up some of the tangles. Stifling a yawn, she steps into the shower.

          She’s wrapped in a towel with her hair combed straight back when the phone rings. Her feet patter against the wood floor as she hurries back to the front room to grab her phone. Water leaves a tiny trail of droplets behind her, and she grimaces as she answers.

          “Hello,” she greets.

          “Allura?”

          She frowns, gathering her hair into a twist with one hand and pulling it into a sloppy bun at the nape of her neck. It’s been a long time since she spoke to Shiro and Keith’s mom outside of the studio. High school, at the most recent.

          “Mrs. Shirogane,” she says. “How can I help you?”

          There’s a sniffle on the other end, and Allura’s hair stands on end. There’s a pause.

          “Is something wrong?” she asks.

          The sniffle this time turns into a sob. Allura’s hand clenches around the edge of the counter.

          “It’s Takashi,” Mrs. Shirogane says. “His unit was hit.”

          No.

          She shakes her head mutely.

          “Takashi and the Holts are both presumed dead,” Mrs. Shirogane says.

          Her voice is expressionless, as if she’s reading from a report and not speaking of her son and neighbors. Allura, shaking, slides to the kitchen floor. Her hair spills wet over her shoulder.

          “I’m so sorry,” she says, because she doesn’t know what else to say. “Is there - is there anything I can do?”

          “No, I-I just know you two are close,” Mrs. Shirogane says. “I thought you should hear before the whole town knows.”

          Allura nods even though she knows Mrs. Shirogane can’t see her. She can’t think of a worse way to find out than by accident.

          “Thank you,” she says. “If there’s anything-”

          “Thank you,” Mrs. Shirogane says. “Keith probably won’t be in class Thursday.”

          “Of course,” Allura says. “Tell him he can take all the time he needs.”

          They talk with a strange politesse, a numbness that feels somehow wrong. Shouldn’t they be weeping? wailing? rending their clothes in grief? Instead, all she can manage are polite assurances that she’s there if the Shiroganes need anything and another expression of condolences. She has a slightly manic thought that she should write Hallmark cards with her apparent penchant for platitudes. She doesn’t voice that.

          When they hang up, Allura stays on the floor with her back pressed into the cabinet. Her phone is still cradled in one hand. Without thought, she clicks on the messages app and scrolls down. Their last conversation is from nearly a month ago, a day when she’d hated her body and herself with a desperate kind of fervor. They’d FaceTimed at Shiro’s suggestion, and his familiar, worried face had somehow given weight to his gentle words. She’d ended up laughing till tears ran down her cheeks before the conversation was done. It’d been four AM Shiro’s time, but he hadn’t complained. After they’d hung up, Shiro had sent a single text message. She’d smiled, flushed with warmth, and fallen asleep without texting back.

          Now, Allura feels her stomach clench up tight at the words. She should have replied. Should have said something, anything. Instead, those three words stare back at her, unblinking.

_‘Good night, Princess.’_

          She weeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~wow author insert much~~ ahem...there's a lot of that in this fic.
> 
> The choreography Allura's doing is straight up stolen from the Narcissus solo I did as a senior which is still the hardest and most fun choreography I've ever done. After each performance/rehearsal, I'd run off stage and just collapse while one of the younger kids brought me my water bottle and jacket. I miss it so much. 
> 
> Also there is an illustration for this, but this week is super busy so I'm not sure when I'll get to it. Rather than delaying the chapter any more, I figured I'd just post it and then add the illustration when I get it done.
> 
> Chapter glossary:  
> • [frappés ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M93QoHPaW4I)\- not just coffee! they're a movement in which the foot goes from the ankle of the other leg to striking the floor (fun fact: this still screws me up when I'm at a café)  
> • [pique turns ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PYtJcHmGDaU)\- you step onto a demi pointe and turn  
> • prance - basically exactly what it sounds like. In this case, the foot is pointed while touching the ground right by the foot of the standing leg  
> • [reverence](http://classicalballetnews.com/the-ritual-of-the-reverence/) \- a traditional combination done at the end of class to sort of thank the teacher and pianist (if there is one) as an echo of ballet's court origins  
> • [tendu ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zeSVHYSMItg)\- ya stick your leggy out with a pointed foot still touching the ground


	3. December 2013

The crossover’s dark and hot, lit only by the reflected blue of the stagelights. Up here, the chatter and screaming of a school of dance students is only a distant chatter. Hunk releases a slow breath and folds back over his leg. His heart’s rabbit-quick in his chest, pitter-pattering against his ribs. He breathes in to a slow count of five. Releases it. Breathes in. It doesn’t help.

“Mind if I join you?”

He startles at Shiro’s voice, jerking upright and nearly toppling the barre over with him. Shiro watches from the doorway, shoes in one hand and water bottle in the other. Hunk clears his throat.

“Uh yeah, go ahead,” he says.

Shiro ambles in and sets his load down by the opposite end of the barre. He’s taller than Hunk, though Hunk thinks he’ll catch up in another year or so. It gives him a small thrill to think of filling in the senior’s shoes some day. Ballet’s not his first love, probably will never be his greatest, but there’s still something irresistible about the stagelights and solos.

“Sorry to bother you,” Shiro says. “It’s just crazy downstairs.”

Hunk shrugs, trying to look nonchalant. It’s not every day a senior soloist comes to warm up with a Ballet Three student. He switches to his left leg and leans forward. He’s more conscious of his technique now, keeping his hip back and his shoulders down.

“It’s really loud,” he offers.

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees with a laugh.

They’re quiet for a long while as they stretch. The downstairs clamor is still audible, but it’s hushed by their slow breaths. After a few minutes, Hunk’s breathing lines up with Shiro’s, and he can feel himself relax as he twists around to stretch his pyriformis. At the barre, Shiro’s twisting his leg in and out in a heel-in-hand stretch, and Hunk watches with quiet envy as he releases it and the leg stays close to his side. Shiro lowers it slowly, coming to a tight fifth position. 

“Mind helping me?” he asks.

Hunk blinks in surprise before managing a nod. Shiro folds himself down to the floor in front of Hunk and shifts forward into a straddle split.

“Have you done this before?” Shiro asks.

“Yeah,” Hunk affirms. “Me and Lance do it all the time.”

Shiro beams. “Perfect.” 

Hunk situates his feet in the middle of Shiro’s calves and takes Shiro’s wrists in his hands. It isn’t quite as comfortable as he’s used to: Lance is leggy but about the same height as Hunk, which makes it easier to match their legs in the stretch. Shiro is significantly more flexible than either of them, and Hunk finds himself flat on his back before Shiro says it’s far enough. They hold the stretch for a few long breaths before Shiro eases them back upright. 

“Thanks,” he says. “Your turn.”

They switch positions, and Shiro gently pulls Hunk’s torso forward by his hands. Hunk waits till he can feel his inner thighs burning and then a little more before telling Shiro. He can feel his legs stretching, loosening, as he holds the stretch. Releasing a deep sigh, he lets his weight sink a little more forward before shifting back to sitting.

“Thanks,” he says.

Shiro waves it away and pushes himself back to his feet. This time, when he pulls his leg into the heel and hand stretch, it’s nearly a flat line against his side. He grins, pleased. Testing the other leg leads to the same result. Lowering his leg, he drops into a forward fold with a contented sigh.

“That feels good,” he says.

Hunk laughs, startled. The few times he’s seen Shiro in class, it’s been with his eyebrows drawn into a serious furrow. He always looks focused, intent on what he’s supposed to learn or perform. This side of him, easy and content, sends something warm fizzing in Hunk’s chest.

“Are you excited?” Shiro asks.

“A little,” Hunk says.

“Nervous?”

Hunk hesitates, digging his thumb into the arch of his foot. He doesn’t want to look like a little kid. It doesn’t matter that the costume waiting for him downstairs is pastel yellow with pink and blue accents. Until now, he’s been enjoying an atypical feeling of maturity, camaraderie with the older dancer.

Shiro looks at him, expression thoughtful and reminiscent of the intense look he wears in class. He shifts into a low lunge, his face turned towards the floor.

“I always get nervous before the first show,” he says. “I know I know the choreography but... I don’t know, I guess it always feels like something could go wrong anyway.”

He shifts to his other leg and lowers his forearms to the marley. The floor’s dirty, dust and glitter covering it in a gritty layer.

“But the audience doesn’t really care. Even if you land on your face, they aren’t going to notice unless you make a deal out of it,” Shiro continues. “And once that first show’s out of the way, well, the other two are nothing.”

“Have you ever fallen?” Hunk wonders aloud.

Shiro laughs, and when he looks up, Hunk can just catch a flush on his cheeks. It’s a little magenta in the blue light.

“When I danced Chinese a few years ago,” he says. “You know that box they come out of? I tripped on my way out. Completely faceplanted. My foot was still stuck on the edge but I was flat out on the ground. I thought I broke my nose.”

Hunk’s hand had leapt to cover his mouth, and he tries to stifle laughter at the image. Shiro comes back to a butterfly position and rubs the back of his neck.

“Yeah, that was pretty bad,” he admits.

“Did you keep dancing?” Hunk asks.

“Once I realized I wasn’t dying,” Shiro replies.

He takes a swig of water and shakes his head.

“Sorry, that’s probably not helpful,” he says. “You’re not going to faceplant, I’m sure.”

Hunk grins and shakes his head. He’s not sure when his shoulders and back relaxed, but he feels free and loose now - like he could dance without any music.

“I can just breakdance if I do,” he jokes.

Shiro straightens, grinning.

“Right! I forgot you breakdance,” he says. “That would definitely spice up Mother Ginger.”

Hunk laughs. He can’t imagine what would happen if he started breakdancing in the middle of the stage, but he imagines it would be straight chaos.

“Hunk? You up here buddy? Oh-!”

Lance freezes in the doorway, mouth gaping a little like a fish. He’s already made up, his scratchy costume top hugging his skinny frame. Even with the blush over his cheeks, it’s impossible to miss the flush that floods them.

“Oh, hi Shiro,” he says.

“Hey Lance,” Shiro greets casually. He rolls through a downward dog to stand up. “I should probably get ready. It was nice talking to you, Hunk.”

“Yeah,” Hunk says. “Thanks, Shiro.”

Shiro waves it off with the hand holding his shoes and slips past Lance to head back downstairs to the locker room. Lance gapes afterward a moment before twisting around to stare at Hunk.

“You - Shiro - ?” he demands.

Hunk shrugs, a little uncomfortable.

“I was nervous,” he says. “He was just helping out.”

Lance relaxes a little, then, but he still slouches into the room and flops down dramatically beside Hunk. He leans into Hunk, all boneless.

“Hunk. You were hanging out with  _ Shiro, _ ” he insists. “That’s my dream.”

“Okay buddy,” Hunk says, shaking his head a little.

Lance continues to bemoan the injustice of it all for a few minutes longer, lamenting the betrayal that is his best friend hanging out with his idol. Hunk grins and tries to pretend he’s taking the whining seriously. 

Beyond the crossover, the stage still waits empty and looming before it, the gaping mouth of the audience. The lights will be blinding, he knows, his nerves galling.  But he knows the steps. He knows the shapes his body needs to make and how to make them. Taking a deep breath, he feels it fill his lungs and exhales easily. For the first time all week, he’s not scared.

“Lance? Hunk?” one of the stage helper’s calls. 

It’s the mom of one of their classmates, and when she peeks her head in through the doorway, her hair is haloed in the blue of the stagelights. She glances over them and then lifts her eyebrows in a harried attempt at a smile.

“You two ready?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Hunk answers with a little grin. “I’m ready.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaahh sorry this has taken forever and also is not great. Trying to get myself back into this fic has not been successful but I am working on it.
> 
> Disclaimer: the stage design is stolen 99% from my home studio which is absolutely not a normal stage. But I miss our crossover sooo here it is
> 
> Chapter Glossary:  
> Ballet Three - dance schools generally have individual methods of divvying up their students. For sake of familiarity, I'm using the method with which I grew up. The levels therefore go: pre-ballet, ballet one, ballet two, ballet three, ballet four, ballet 5. Time in each level varies by student with it generally taking longer the higher the level you're in. In this chapter, Hunk would be about 5th-6th grade (Ballet 3) and Shiro a junior/senior in HS (Ballet 5). Technical roles like 'soloist,' 'principal,' etc aren't formalized, but Hunk refers to Shiro as a senior soloist because his level is the one from which soloists are generally chosen.
> 
> Chinese (& Hunk's costume) - one of the traditional dances in Act II of The Nutcracker. Hunk and Lance are dancing as Polichinelles which are basically little kids/dolls that come out from under Mother Ginger's skirt. Look, The Nutcracker is a weird freaking ballet. 
> 
> Crossover - the space behind the stage. Called a 'crossover' because it's the area in which dancers cross over from one side of the stage to the other without being seen. (Also, in my old school, where we Old Folks would chill out together and avoid the small children)
> 
> Dance shoes - a brief explanation of shoes in ballet: men almost always wear canvas ballet slippers (black, nude, or white depending on the part they're performing); women wear ballet slippers or pointe shoes in class but typically perform in pointe shoes. Character shoes are also a thing but we're skipping those!
> 
> [Fifth position](https://ballethub.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/fivepositions-fifth.jpg) \- one of the basic positions of ballet 
> 
> Heel-in-hand stretch - [arguably the most show-off stretch you can do in ballet.](http://cf.ltkcdn.net/dance/images/std/53636-283x424-Danceflexibility.jpg) also just a genuinely good hamstring stretch
> 
> Pyriformis - part of yo booty
> 
> Stage helpers - volunteers who help corral young children backstage mostly
> 
> Straddle split - middle split. The stretch they do here is a pretty common one but Google Images is literally only showing horrifying partner yoga images so I have no picture for you

**Author's Note:**

> ABT - American Ballet Theatre (their Insta is A+)
> 
> barre - it's literally just the bar we hold onto during class. Sometimes they're wood, sometimes metal. My home studio uses metal barres for the most part, my current ones use wood. In this story, there's a mix
> 
> (brise) vole - a type of beated jump. Vole is technically harder than regular brises but regular brises to the back are terrifying and have caused my life to flash before my eyes. I'll try to take a video of the exact combo they're doing here bc it's horrible.
> 
> combination - sequence of steps
> 
> developpe - unfolding your leg up high in the air (look at the pic at the bottom)
> 
> grande allegro - big jumps. Leaps, tour jetes/entrelace, etc. Basically the best part of class.
> 
> marley - rubberized flooring used in dance studios
> 
> Nutcracker & Cavalier & Sugar & Dew - just google The Nutcracker if you don't know what that is. Cavalier is the dude who partners the Sugar Plum Fairy (aka the dance that goes to the music in every single Christmastime commercial). Dewdrop is my favorite part and it's either a solo or a duet done during Waltz of the Flowers.
> 
> petit allegro - medium sized jumps. e.g. [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cvrPLx3z7bY)
> 
> Pointe - pointe shoes are those shiny satin things that make ballerinas look like we're standing on our toes. Technically we sort of are but sort of not? Anyway, the PSI's like 220 lbs/in according to an article I read the other day.


End file.
